


Certain Steps

by solemnsuns



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Relationships, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-12 07:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7925290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solemnsuns/pseuds/solemnsuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Breach hanging above all their heads, Coralynn is afraid. It is as simple as that. She wants no part in the Inquisition she has been thrust into and fears everyday for her life.</p><p>Coralynn Trevelyan prides herself as being a rational woman, but an apocalypse hardly responds to rationality. </p><p>So, instead, she grits her teeth and faces the Breach head on. </p><p>She is afraid, yes, but she will not falter.</p><p>*Updates every Thursday*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

She is afraid.

Within reason, she believes. The sky has been ripped open and marred by verdigris. An unknown, possibly ancient, magical power has split across her hand, causing half to believe her a saint and the others, fade-incarnate. Her friends and mentor have perished in the eruption at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, of which she is the only to survive.

Yes, she believes, she does have reason to be afraid, especially if she is a herald of this upcoming apocalypse.

She ventures into the Hinterlands after the wayward Mother Giselle and meets the woman aiding the refugees there. The Antivan diplomat, stresses the Mother’s importance to the Ferelden populace. Her acceptance would greatly aid in the areas support of the newly fledged Inquisition. So she travels, alongside the Divine’s Right Hand, a dwarven rogue, and an elven apostate, into the countryside.

To be sure, it is a motley crew, their assemblage more expected of a roaming troupe. Yet, they bring no joy to where they travel.

As a girl, she learned of the terrible civil strife upon the annexation of Ferelden into Orlais, of the countless villages raised and marauding bandits that roamed all free roads.

Decades later, she wonders how much has changed. The Templar-Mage conflict is evident upon every corner with dozens of bodies littering the wayside. Coralynn has heard of the dangers to mages in the southern reaches of Thedas, but what she sees is horrific, beyond any of her own imaginings.

The Divine’s warrior assures her of her safety. She travels with a Chantry sanctioned official, after all. But the bodies in the wayside still bare the Chantry’s sigil upon breastplate and cloth. Quickly, she learns that affiliation matters little in this ragged world she has stumbled into.

At Haven, all watch her. The local folk think her divine and make the sign of the holy flame as she passes. Her survival is dubbed as providence, the mark as a miracle blessed by the Maker.

It is those leading the Inquisition, though, whom she fears the most. A templar controls their forces. He does not introduce himself as such, but it is easy to see in his every motion. She feels his eyes upon her, watching her for any magical splutter, and the Fist of the Divine acts no differently. When they travel, her hand is always poised above sword pommel, ready to strike her down upon any demon possession. The Antivan waits for a liability to emerge, pouring over reports from the Divine’s left. And of the Orlesian woman, Coralynn knows nothing but for the amount of eyes she has scouring the countryside of their every action.

Instead, Coralynn wishes for the safety of the Circle, where death did not wait upon every other breath.  She misses her friends and the young pupils, so recently assigned to her. Her family’s gold may have bought her more maneuverability in Ostwick, but her safety there was innumerable in comparison to the open road of the Ferelden countryside.

They all believe her to be some form of salvation, with the jagged magic across her palm.

She knows she shouldn’t trust the arcane weaving. The Circle has taught her to understand spells, their intricacies and inner workings, but the mark contains nothing familiar. Its end point fractals, where it should spiral and the network within contains no coding into what it should accomplish. Instead, the magic seems broken and incomplete, which makes no sense. No spell in an unfinished state would be able to become grafted to another host. Yet, the marking remains on her skin and she has no choice but to put her faith in it, like so many of the others.

Some call her the Herald, attributing her to Andraste and her marking to divine power. She doesn’t yet know where to place her own faith. It is difficult to believe your own self as divine when you understand a different story than the rest of the populace, she believes.

Haven doesn’t know the truth. They didn’t feel the fear bursting in her lungs as she ran from the Fearlings in that dark place. They didn’t know the power that washed over as she clasped the spirit’s hand, pulling her away from that hellscape. There had been a gut-churning sensation and then she was sprawled against the ashy floor, heaving for breath.

Before she sleeps, she can almost feel the drop and shift as when she transported the barrier between Fade and reality. There was a power there, that much she understands. But it was not pure, not in the way that the divine should feel. What crossed her skin was darker and wilder, tinged with the arcane.

She cannot name the power she felt, but it is the same that hums through her hand.

Instead, she concentrates on her actions in the Hinterlands. She cannot quake or falter for fear that the right hand of the Divine would strike her down, but neither can she fight head-on. Her time in the Circle was spent studying magical law and its applications, not how to dispatch foes intent on slicing her to bits.

Half of the time, the warrior simply shoves her into the nearby brush for the duration of the fight, rather than allow her to be a liability in the field. The elven mage, Solas, instructs her in the evenings, showing her basic defensive and combative spells and if nothing else, she is able to keep distance between herself and opponents, so that her companions can more easily pick her foes off. Even the dwarven rogue tries to pass her a knife to practice with, but that effort is more disastrous than her magic. Still, she keeps it strapped to her belt, just in case.

In the end, she is still thrust into the bushes for most fights, but Coralynn learns at least few rudimentary maneuvers.

Her strength comes in closing the rifts they find scattered across the Hinterlands. Demons she knows how to fight against, knows ways to pull their own mana against them and to heighten their specific vulnerabilities. She has long passed her Harrowing and knows that she will not come easy to whatever demon attempts to possess her. Even the Right Hand of the Divine is impressed with the rapidity of her work in dispatching the rifts.

Yet at night, Coralynn lies on the rough ground inside the Inquisition camp and listens to the sounds of the wildlife around them, feeling the strain of her muscles and the weariness in her bones. She has no choice but to swallow her fears and attempt to fight another day. After all, her days are numbered in times like these.

* * *

 

When she finally returns to Haven, it feels different. The air has somehow changed, approval more altered than it was before. 

More and more regard her as some sort of divine hero, as refugees flock to the safety of the small town. Word has spread that the Divine’s Hands remain here, working on the fledgling Inquisition. Their power is different than that of the numerous Mothers and chapels that dot the countryside of both Orlais and Ferelden. While the Inquisition does not have the same power structure as that of the Church, it is more surer in its oligarchy than that of the other alternatives.

The remains of the Circles still lay in shambles. Mages live in constant fear, afraid to reunite under any sort of banner than that of freedom and Coralynn cannot find it in her heart to blame them. She sympathizes with their cause, knowing that rumors of Ferelden Circles were rarely positive. Even in Ostwick, she heard things, Annulments, or whispers hidden in hallways after every uprising.

The Templars are no better. They flinch and attack any trespassers they come across, regardless if they are magical or not.

Cassandra shakes her head at every templar she is forced to kill and Coralynn feels the same towards her fellow mages. She tries to not look in their eyes, because what she sees is not rabidity, but fear. Yet slaughter is now what this war-torn world expects of her.

Luckily, the mages and the templars that arrive at Haven share none of the insanity found in the roadside. They travel under a flag of peace and enter the village wishing for nothing but a meal and a warm place to rest their head. Coralynn talks to a few of them, huddled around a fire at night and still hears the desperation in their voice.

Most long for the circle, the only sense of stability they have ever known.

Some have a glimmer in their eyes, looking forward to the travel and freedom ahead. But when their eyes dart to the sky, they swallow quickly and return to the ground, growing quiet. Coralynn understands the feeling, knowing how oppressive the Circle could feel at times. As a child, she too dreamed of escape, but none of her dreams included this ragged world and the green abyss circling above their heads.

Yet with each new refugee, a sense of surety in the Inquisition’s cause emerges. In some twisted way, they believe that she, a mage, is their salvation. 

The Council, for that is what they have begun to call themselves, trusts in their cause. Their meetings broker no room for argument or misgiving. The road may be steep and roots may block their path, but if their belief is sure than so shall their efforts become.

The Spy-Mistress, Leliana, holds a cold and calculating faith. Every move is analyzed for a misstep. She juggles countless pawns between her fingers and mounts scouts on every forward pass and roads. Tirelessly, she manages the network of the Inquisition and gathers rumors months ahead of when they will pay off. She steers darkness in her wake, but hope remains a bright point in the center of her figure. One morning, Coralynn notices the emblazoned symbol of the Divine still upon her ring and must look away. Divine Justinia is dead, but her flock remains steadfast as ever.

Leliana’s faith is still as sure as that of the Fist of the Divine. Cassandra is a hard woman, but Coralynn has never met someone as unwavering in her beliefs. She counts it as a miracle that the Right Hand spared her of her life when she first awoke in the cells beneath Haven. She slays with a careful poise, akin to that of the Left Hand. Coralynn is not sure if it is her belief in the surety of their cause that keeps her afloat, or the acknowledgment that she holds no options past her appointment with the Inquisition. Some nights, she sees her bowed before the altar of Andraste with prayers spoken too softly to understand. 

The Antivan diplomat, Josephine, keeps most opinions to herself, yet Coralynn has seen the jet rosary sprawled across her desk in the early morning hours. The woman is tricky, she is careful to let others reveal their opinion before she voices her own. It is a savvy, political move, fitting of her posting. Still, Coralynn sees the wish to believe in her eyes and the faith she places in the Inquisition. Josephine Montilyet may have joined their group at the insistence of Leliana and departed the lavish country home of some Orlesian noble to host the diplomatic efforts of Haven, but she has taken a strong charge of their operations with a steadfastness that surprises Coralynn.  

Even the templar has begun to act differently. The troops of the Inquisition, which grow in numbers daily with every influx of refugees, look to him for guidance. They need someone to steer them and he proves himself capable of that role. From a distance, she watches him put his soldiers through countless drills and routines. While not military herself, Coralynn has seen what well-organized troops are capable of. The templar’s men will act valiantly in the face of battle, if for nothing else than the Andrastian faith.

Yet one evening, the dwarven rogue tells her of the Kirkwall Circle, what it was like before the explosion of the chantry and the devastation it caused. She learns that it was the Inquisition’s very own Commander who was instated there as Knight- Captain and her blood runs cold. Coralynn knew, as well as any other mage, how quickly the Rite of Annulment was called for in the Circle and at such a high posting, their Commander would have been the templar to approve the act.

So it is startling when the Inquisition’s soldiers begin to look to her as a beacon, a talisman to keep them from harm, as she alone has the power to close the mars in the sky. She knows the templar encourages this view in his troops; she is an easy rally point. Yet, she still wishes it were not so, careful not to trust the man who called for the murder of so many innocent lives. Cassandra, she believes, should be the woman looked to, not herself.

But in spite of her misgivings, hope lies in the air. They believe in their cause and the justness of their actions. Coralynn is not so sure, but she does her best to hide her apprehension. She may have their support now, yet it was not so long ago that the townsfolk of Haven looked to her with murder in their eyes and a willingness to let her hang. She must play this game carefully, lest she become an easily toppled pawn.

She knows that she is merely a figurehead for the Inquisition and although some may look to her for guidance, it is truly the Council that decides what action shall be taken.

So, she is glad when they ready to leave for Val Royeaux, longing for the respite the travel will giver her from the constant eyes in Haven.


	2. This Is Where the Horse Comes in

The Master Dennet has supplied them with ample horses, strong sturdy breeds raised for work in the Ferelden countryside. They are not the swiftest creatures, but they will serve them well for the mountainous travel.

In the morning before they are set to depart, she wakes just before dawn. The mountain village is chilled, a thin layer of frost covering the world. Coralynn takes the wool throw from her bed and wraps it around her shoulders to ward off the cold.

She meets a few of the villagers as they ready for work, but they say little, preserving the still silence of the early dawn.

Coralynn passes the carved hounds of Haven’s gate and presses forward to the stables. Already thin smoke curls out of the chimney of the blacksmith and she can hear the clanks of tools as the smith, Harritt, readies for the day.

Over the embankment, lies the stable. The sun has begun to crest the low hills and she knows she must hurry.

Inside the stable, it is warm and she easily places the woolen throw against a hook by the door. The stable boy is already awake, readying fresh hay for the horses, and she nods a hello. Stepping over the straw, she walks towards the last stall and is soon greeted by a velvet nose poking over the door.

Her horse, a dappled gray mare dubbed Brume, was a gift from Master Dennet and was bred from the remnants of his Orlesian stock. She was a fine beast of calm temperament and Coralynn was proud to call the horse her own. The Trevelyans are proud horsemen, supplying many of the breeding stock throughout Ostwick. Within the Circle, she received many letters from her family talking of their beasts. At holidays, when she returned home for a few days, she would sit in the stable with her brother and sit with the horses for hours.

There is a sense of comfort to be found with the beasts and Trevelyan lavishes comfort upon the Brume, the first horse she has ever received.

Brume nickers softly to the woman and Coralynn reveals the apple she has brought along. The beast happily takes the proffered treat, leaving time for her to rub her hand alongside the mare’s fine coat.

She will leave soon to attend the morning Council meeting, but she takes a few moments of calm where she can and the stables at dawn remain a discreet place. Her horse does not judge her for her ability to stop the Breach, nor for her mage blood. As long as she remembers a treat, the beast is more than compliant to her company.  

Coralynn hears the stable boys approach as she idly braids a portion of the horse’s mane. “We’ll have her ready for travel at your word, Herald.” He carries Brume’s saddle and places it on the post next to the beast’s stall.

She turns to him, the title prickling the hairs on the back of her neck. She is not quite sure what she thinks of the honorific yet, only that it comes with a sense of being profoundly wrong somehow. “My thanks. We should depart within the next hour.”  

The boy nods and returns to his duties. Coralynn supposes she must leave this place as well and do the same.

Outside, the sky has lightened and she makes her way quickly to Haven’s chapel, until she hears the raised voices.

Refugees stand in a loose circle shouting with voices that slowly raise higher and higher. She recognizes a few with the most distinctive accents, but most remain unknown to her. Mages and templars she realizes with a quickening pulse. Her mana tingles in her palms, readying for a fight if there is to be one. One voice pierces clear above the others.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!”

She doesn’t know who shouts first, but Coralynn knows where this will lead; she has seen the outcome in the roadsides, bodies of both templar and mage. She cuts through the crowd, desperate to diffuse the situation before it escalates further.

One mage pushes through, staff already bared. “Lies! Your kind let her die!”

She feels the sudden drop of atmosphere, as the mage readies their spell and knows this will only end in bloodshed unless it is dropped.

“Stop this madness!” She shouts, struggling to reach the two figures in the center of the crowd. But her plea is ignored amidst the tension of those gathered.

The templar draws his sword and begins a swing, until an outstretched hand wrenches him back.

“Enough!” The man inserts himself between the two figures, arms stretched wide, and with a shock she realizes it is the Commander.

The mage looks to ready another spell, but Coralynn grabs the staff and holds it back, the power of the Mark leaking between her fingers and the wood. Whatever the mage has to say vanishes and she feels the tingle of dispersed mana pass through the stave as the spell is released back into the Fade.

“Knight-Captain?” The templar exclaims in shock.

The Commander turns to the man, “That is not my title. We are _not_ templars any longer.” To the mage, he addresses, “We are _all_ part of the Inquisition.”

Both of the men look to the side, chastised, until the approach of the Chancellor. The crowd parts around him as he speaks, “And what does that mean exactly?”

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?”

Coralynn pulls the mage back to the side, their staff droops against the ground and she tries to calm the thrumming in her hand, mana still pooled for a fight. On the other side of the crowd, she notices that several templars have done the same to their companions.

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and,” the Chancellor looks at her as she stands next to the mages, “its _Herald,_ will restore order as you’ve promised.”

It is then that the Commander notices Coralynn and he straightens, arms crossing against his chest and sneers something low beneath his breath towards the Chancellor.

She realizes that she is still braced for a fight, arms wide the way Solas taught her in the Hinterlands and Coralynn feels the fear coil in her stomach, worried how she will be perceived. Will he think that she has sided too closely with the mages and made her allegiance too apparent? Will she too be killed next like those in the Kirkwall Circle?

But he merely addresses the crowd, “Back to your duties, all of you!”

By some miracle, they disperse, leaving only the Chancellor and Commander to remain, argument already begun.  Coralynn approaches them with forced steady steps, she will not show her fear. This templar cannot kill her, not when she alone holds the power to seal the breach.

“Mages and templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.”

“Which is why we require a _proper_ authority to guide them back to order.”

The Commander laughs, “Who, you? Or random clerics that weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

“Or the rebel Inquisition and it’s so-called _Herald of Andraste_ ,” the Chancellor turns to Coralynn with a sneer, “I think _not.”_

She looks to the man with chin held high, “If the _proper_ authority hadn’t completely failed, the Conclave would never have been needed, Chancellor.” She doesn’t want to fight with the man. He is just afraid as the rest, but she cannot abide by someone so willing to further incite a mob.

“So you suggest I blame the Chantry and exalt a murderer? What of justice?”

“That won’t help restore order in the here and now,” the Commander states.  

“I’ll make sure they see reason in Val Royeaux,” she tries to assuage both parties, but the Commander only shrugs and looks to the receding crowds. “I pray you’re right.”

The Chancellor merely scowls and turns back towards the village, leaving them with parting words. “Be warned, _Herald._ If you do not succeed in Val Royeaux, you will hang. Justice is the Maker’s will.”

Coralynn takes a deep breath and tries to still her heart from where it still flutters in her chest. She won’t show her fear to this man. The Chancellor doesn’t know that in her nightmares the people of Haven still blame her for the Divine’s death and she is torn apart by wild Ferelden hounds.

“Ignore him, he’s toothless.”

She turns to the Commander as he opens the door to the Chantry. “He drew the crowd’s attention well enough today. Left untethered, he could become a liability.”

The man shakes his head, “There’s no point turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth.”

She hopes he is right, but a part of her gladdens at his unwillingness to remove the Chancellor so quickly from Haven. The action hints towards a sense of justice, however repressed.

The chapel is still quiet in the morning hours, only a few have entered to pray, most for the missing souls of their loved ones. Votive candles line the base of the altar and a censer perfumes the air next to the statue of Andraste.  The Commander looks to it and makes the sign of the Holy Flame before turning back to her, “The Chantry is divided now, but your visit to Val Royeaux will change much of that. The Grand Clerics must be made to see reason.”

She hopes the Inquisition will succeed, lest she face the Chancellor’s idea of _justice_ upon her return. But her words turn sticky in her throat, so she nods, mutely.

Josephine pushes open the door to the Council Chambers at their approach and quickly ushers them inside.

Within, Cassandra points stiffly at the map, voice raised. Leliana in turn points to another, smaller, map, arguing the benefits of this road over the other, while Josephine tries to assure the women on the safeness of their original route. Eventually they settle on an isolated Northern pass, until the Commander mentions his reports of bandits in the area and Leliana slams her map back onto the table, muffling Orlesian curses. In the chaos, Coralynn steps to the side and waits.

By mid-morning, they are ready to depart, following a route along the Frostback basin with a retinue of Inquisition guards to accompany them.

She is glad to leave the walls of Haven behind and allow for tensions to settle, but her heart hammers in her chest at the thought of arriving in Orlais. Cassandra rides beside her, twisting the reins tightly around her hand. She cuts a stoic figure, but Coralynn can see the tension that holds her taut. The warrior is just as nervous as she about what they shall encounter in Val Royeaux.

Looking to the countryside around them, she prays that their case will be strong enough to sway the Grand Clerics, if not, the Inquisition will flounder before it has even begun. She feels the phantom breath of wild dogs at her neck and steels herself. Justice will be met, but she will not die at the hands of the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Story Title: Coralynn and the No Good, Very Bad Days Following the Breach  
> Or: I've Watched Way Too Many 'Let's Play...' for This Thing, Send Help, I Can Quote Them All


	3. Chapter 3

That evening, they rest in an inn at the foot of the Frostbacks. By tomorrow, they will be able to share their report with the Council. 

Their visit to the Orlesian capital has been, all things considered, an absolute disaster. They have found none of the help that was expected. The Chantry has refused to aid their cause. The Templars have declared their scission and even the Order of Seekers would not see them. Most merchants laughed at their coin and the upper crust of Orlesian society hosted their company only to make mockery.

Only the Madame de Fer made a commitment to their organization, yet she joins solely to restore power to the circles and prevent greater harm from occurring to the already battered mages. To the Lady Vivienne, the mar in the sky is only a challenge to overcome in restoring order and normalcy.  

She would join their operation in Haven by the month's end, but Coralynn wonders if she will indeed even appear. Her time in the Orlesian capital has taught her take even the most heartfelt promises with grains of salt.

Only one person agreed to return to Haven with them, an odd elf who insisted she worked for a network of ‘Red Jennies.’ She swore up and down that they would help the Inquisition in any way possible, especially if it benefitted the ‘little people.’ It was only Varric’s insistence that she wasn’t insane that allowed her to join their retinue. Apparently, he had seen the work of her secret organization in Kirkwall and trusted her word. Coralynn hopes he is right; otherwise they now travel with a delusional elf skilled with the bow. She takes to sleeping roughly, half afraid she will awake to the glinting shaft of Sera’s arrow pointed at her in the deep night.

Her fears are baseless, however, and they make their way across the Ferelden border in good time.

The inn where they rest is quaint, used to pilgrims not retinues. Still, room is found for their horses and soldiers and they are warmly hosted in the main house. The innkeepers welcome their party in, glad to host such illustrious members of the Inquisition. Their use of Haven as an operational base has sent much travel their way, as refugees with coin gladly take the chance to rest their head in a dry bed.

As Herald of the Inquisition, she is offered their best room and while she knows she should demure and request more humble lodgings, travel has made her weary. So, she settles into the room, glad for the respite.

Settling in the center of the bed, Coralynn is more than happy for the rest. As much as she has traveled lately, she is still unused to staying on horseback for such long periods of time and her legs and buttocks ache with the unaccustomed strain. Through the walls, she can hear the members of her party settle in for the night, but she is thankful for the quiet of her own room.

She has spent too long sharing tents in the wilderness. As a child, she had shared a dormitory with other Apprentice mages, but since her Harrowing, she kept her own chambers. Her room in Haven is smaller than she was accustomed to in Ostwick, yet it provides her more privacy than the tents they use during travel.

Soon, she will make her way downstairs for a meal, until then the comfort of the bed draws her in. For a week, she has slept solely on her travelling mat, a thin, padded sheet meant to offer only the barest of protection between the hard earth and its user.

It is enough for her in that moment to lie still in a soft bed, listening to the sound of her own breath.

She doesn’t realize that she has dozed off, but wakes at the knocking at her door and concerned voice on the other side. Groggily, she pushes herself up and answers the sound.

Cassandra waits for her on the other side with one hand poised to continue the staccato raps and a bowl in the other. “You did not come down, I worried that something was amiss,” she says as she saunters into the room, setting the bowl down on the low table.

Coralynn rubs at her face, trying to wake herself. “My apologies. I must have slipped off to sleep.”

The woman nods and sits down on the room’s only chair. “We have travelled hard. It is understandable. Still,” she nods towards the bowl, “you should eat.”

Her stomach rumbles before she can answer and, sheepishly, she takes the bowl into her hands. It is a thick stew, filled with fragrant spices, vegetables, and several chunks of roast. The smell makes her mouth water and she realizes with a quick spoonful that it tastes just as good.

Cassandra stays and watches her eat, making small conversation as she polishes her blade with a cloth. She is more sentimental than Coralynn originally thought; the Lord Seeker’s rejection has hit her harder than any other news. Coralynn has tried to offer words of comfort, but the warrior has taken little of it. Cassandra is not a woman to be coddled.

Yet, Coralynn is grateful that she sits with her now. Travelling with the warrior and battling side-by-side altered her perception of the woman. No longer was she afraid that Cassandra was merely waiting for a reason to strike her down as an abomination. Now, she trusts the warrior with a steadfastness that surprises her. Of all her companions, the woman is the most likely to tell her a truthful answer and provide a heartfelt response. She is proud, yes, but in that pride is an admirable strength. 

Coralynn finishes her stew and Cassandra sheathes her sword, readying to stand, but pauses at the door.

“Is everything all right?” Coralynn asks.

She shakes her head. “The Lord Seeker, I have thought more on his actions in Val Royeaux. Something was amiss, just as the Grand Enchanter’s presence. He should have remained in Château le Manc to redouble the order’s efforts.” She pulls open the door,  “I believe that we will soon need to choose a side, Coralynn.”

In the hallway, Cassandra pauses and turns to her, “I warn you to be ready.” 

* * *

Her warning was ample. 

As they entered Haven the next day, the village was ablaze with the news of what had occurred in Val Royeaux. Quickly, the Fereldeners akin themselves to the fabled rebels of the Orlesian occupation, while the Orlesians reached for any sort of security they could find. Distanced, officially, from the Chantry they began to fear for their cause. Mother Giselle readies a sermon that afternoon in an attempt to dissuade their qualms. 

The Council is called for that evening. Until that time, Coralynn sits in the stable with Brume, brushing away the dust from her coat. She sits in her road leathers and whispers to her horse, fear gathering in her stomach.

She knows what this meeting will be, knows she will finally have to make a choice between the templars and mages.  Coralynn wishes it were more black and white, that she could paint one as evil and the other good. Yet, she cannot bring herself to decide.

Mages need tutelage, an understanding of their powers, but even a trained mage can succumb to the Fade and become an endangerment to others.  From a young age she was taught how easily power will breed notions of superiority and from that irresponsibility.

Yet, she has seen the cruelty that comes to templars and knows how deep their arrogance can run. Even in Ostwick, there were rumors of some templars to be avoided when walking alone at night. Coralynn would not support such cruelty, but the templars have duties beyond patrolling the Circles. Instead, they served as a religious militia, protecting chantries and religious business. Many communities without organized soldiers relied on the templars to keep them safe from banditry other unseemly vagrants.

The Circles might have been destroyed, but the mages and templars still had duties to perform. Each organization had clear benefits, but had failed to some degree to uphold their most basic tenements. Yet, such pollution was not wholly widespread. Choosing one side would have disastrous consequences for the other.

Sitting there in the quiet of the stables, Coralynn does not know how to choose. By the door, lay her woolen wrap, forgotten from the weeks before. She takes it, feeling its rough warmth and allows herself a moment to long for home, away from the mess of diplomacy.

By the time she steps outside of the barn, evening has just begun to darken the sky. She hurries back to her room to shuck off her road leathers, knowing she has taken too much time already.

A page knocks against the doorpost, just as she finishes braiding the hair away from her face and she follows the child out into the evening chill. It is a bracing feeling and she is glad for the cold to steel her for what is to come ahead.

The people of Haven look to her expectantly as she passes and she feels the weight that rests upon her shoulders. Whatever decision they make in the council chambers will forever alter the course of the Inquisition, for better or worse.

Cassandra meets her at the door, arms crossed, and together they enter the Council room.

Inside, the scene is a familiar one. The Knight-Captain— _ Commander,  _ she remembers—peers down at the map, standing alongside Leliana, who moves various pawns to one point or another.

Within a moment, Josephine rushes into the room, writing board at the ready with apologies already forming.

Together they take their places around the table and begin. Each aligns with a different cause.

Josephine supports the rebel mages, the Commander allies with the Templars. Cassandra wishes to investigate the actions of the Lord Seeker and Leliana requests they inquire towards the Grand Enchanter.

It is all Coralynn can do to mediate between them and so it goes for hours.

By midnight, no resolution has been made and they all stand stiffly in different corners of the room with hoarse voices. Plans have been made and discarded with increasing intensity. At last, they sit, quiet for the moment

Coralynn is tired. She is sore. And most off all, she wishes for a bath. They have made no progress and she is nearing her wits end. Unwilling to wait a moment longer, she walks to the table and sets her palms flat upon the map. Josephine’s writing board lies discarded next to her hand, candle burnt to a waxy nub.

The woman sits with her head in her hands, hair frizzing from its typical coif. Leliana sits across from her, scanning and reexamining reports as if the answer will at last reveal itself.

Coralynn takes a breath, “We should stop, this is turning into madness.”

Cassandra and Cullen sit on the opposite side of the room, with steepled fingers and furrowed brows, yet they look to her when she speaks.

“Clearly, we are unable to come to agreement. Neither the mages or templars are knocking at our door, we can wait to decide another day.”

Josephine stands and smooths the wrinkles from her skirts, “Coralynn is right. We’ve accomplished nothing.”

Her words work a certain magic and the air in the room changes as they realize the futility of the evening. “I’m not even certain we have enough influence to approach either party safely,” Cullen adds.  

Cassandra agrees, “It still comes down to agents, which we do not have.”

“So, we sleep and return to it tomorrow morning.” Coralynn suggests.

Leliana wipes a hand through her hair, “My scouts will have more information come dawn. Besides, there is not much left to discuss.”

Coralynn heaves a sigh of relief, half afraid she might collapse upon the table. Together, the Council shuffles out of the room and towards welcoming bed, arguments dispersed from the time being.

Josephine squeezes her shoulder in thanks as they depart, a slight smile on her lips. Coralynn returns the gesture and takes the moment of calm. The Inquisition has not changed in a night. Somehow, they have found more time and for that Coralynn is grateful.

* * *

Come morning, Leliana approaches her and directs her to the low tent outside of the chapel. With a gesture, her agents clear out of the way and they are left alone for the moment. 

Leliana begins in a hushed breath, “I’ve at last received scout reports from Montsimmard, the Orlesian Grey Warden stronghold. The post has been abandoned, just as those throughout Ferelden.”

“Don’t Wardens typically recede after Blights? Perhaps, they are condensing their numbers?”

The woman nods, “One would think. Ordinarily, I would not consider the idea that they are involved in all this, but the timing is curious.”

“Grey Wardens are a neutral party, what cause would they have to manufacture a hole in the sky?”

“That I do not know, but I cannot ignore my suspicions.” Leliana picks a report from her table and gestures for Coralynn to take it. “I’ve only managed to secure news of a single Grey Warden, by the name of Blackwall, deep in the Hinterlands.”

Coralynn scans the report in front of her, but most of it remains in some form of cipher, “You wish for me to go investigate?”

“Yes, if for nothing else than to secure allies for the Inquisition. Wardens have always helped during Blights, the Breach should be no different.” 

“I’ll notify Cassandra.”

Leliana nods and turns back to the table, shuffling through the papers scattered there. “Maker be with you, Herald.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super pumped to go find this mysterious warden!


	4. Meeting Blackwall

Several days later, they meet with Scout Harding within the Crossroads and hear of bandits patrolling the area. Harding has heard rumors of their strange ferocity, fighting against foes more heavily armored than they. It is worrying, but Harding assures they can be avoided if their party is careful. As to the Warden’s exact location, she is unsure, but believes that someone in the small village must know.

Sure enough, they are soon approached by a man by the name of Giles. “You looking for Blackwall?”

Cassandra turns to him; “You have information on his whereabouts?” She is a fierce sight and the man looks back to the Herald. “He’s a good man. Kept us safe when the demons attacked, wouldn’t want nothing happening to him.”

“We’re looking into the disappearance of the Wardens, nothing more.” Coralynn tries to assuage his fears; she understands how frightful times must be in the Ferelden provinces.

Giles nods and leans against a nearby fence post, spitting over the rail. “All I knows is the Warden helped stop the demons whiles we escaped. Without him, we would’ve….” He pauses, a long look passing over his features. “We took what we could from the farms, then the bandits came and stole all that. Made Blackwall mad as blazes, like it was the last straw or something. He conscripted all the other farmers and headed on after them. Down the road there.” He points towards the hills.

“Have you seen them since?” Coralynn asks.

“No, m’lady. Regis, Minnie’s youngest, headed up after them. But Blackwall sent the lad home the very next day. Regis did say all the same men as went up remain, you could ask him if you’re curious. I'm sure though that the Warden’ll watch out for the lads. Maker be blessed.”

They thank Giles, pay him a good silver for his trouble. He bites the coin, “You find him, say thanks again for me. If I were younger, I’d of followed him up myself.”

As they travel, Coralynn wonders about the man who has inspired such strength from the Ferelden farmers. Together, their merry band heads up into the hills, a dwarf, an elf, a mage, and the Right Hand of the Divine. Varric begins their walk with a colorful story of the last time he went in search of a missing Warden, which becomes punctuated by Cassandra’s ever quickening comments of disbelief. By the time they enter the Upper Lakes, their spirits are high and even Solas has cracked a few chuckles.

Coralynn feels her mana jump and pulse in excitement under her skin. She looks forward to meeting the Warden. As a child, she traded tales with her brothers about the heroics of the fabled Grey Wardens of old. They would sit in corners, long after dark with a candle burned low, each topping the last story. Now, she knew griffons were long since extinct and the order no longer commanded the same respect, but she knows the stories of the fabled Wardens over ten years past that saved Ferelden from the Blight.. Meeting Blackwall would a childhood dream come true, if only he would be able to supply them the information they needed.

They arrive at a dilapidated house on the Lake Ridge, decaying fishing equipment stacked against the mildewed walls. Slowly, they walk along the docks and feel the wood creak under their boots, watching what appears to be a drilling instruction with words echoing across the water.

“Remember how to carry your shields! You’re not hiding, you’re holding. Otherwise it’s useless!” Cassandra murmurs in assent beside her and Coralynn cracks a smile. She approaches the instructor, “Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?”

The man is hesitant, “You’re not—how do you know my name? Who sent you?” He looks ready to draw his sword, but before the woman can respond, one of the farm boys shouts for cover.

She hears the whistle of an arrow and suddenly the man has raised his shield before her head. The arrow embeds itself with a heavy thunk and Cassandra pushes her down, half dragging her behind the cover of the lake house.

Blackwall rallies his troops as the first wave of bandits attack. Varric readies his crossbow and fires a few warning shots, while Solas ices the grass in front of their charge leading them to slip and fall.

Coralynn concentrates and begins to pull on her mana, feeling the thin barrier between herself and fade. Lightning sparks on her fingers, but before she can direct it, Cassandra shakes her roughly. “Not. Here.” She rests her hand on the pommel of the sword, ready incase any of the bandits get too close.

In the fighting, she hears the boys exclaim at the magic, but Blackwall is quick to quiet their fears and return their attention to the fight ahead.

It is over as quickly as it begins and they step away from cover. The Warden has thrust his sword into the ground and leans over the body of one of the fallen bandits, “Sorry bastards.”

He stands and heads back to the farmers, who have gathered in a loose circle. Only one has blood on his blade, yet the man congratulates them on their efforts. “Good work conscripts. Even if this shouldn’t of happened. They couldn’t of—well, thieves are made not born.” He gestures to the bodies behind him, “Take back what they stole. Go back to your families. You saved yourselves.”  

The boys take a look at the bandits, but none stop and they pick their way across the docks and back towards their village. After watching them go, the Warden turns to her, “You’re no farmer. Why do you know my name? Who sent you?”

Coralynn pulls at her gloves, tightening them around her fingers, the residual mana causing an itching sensation. “I’m with the Inquisition, investigating the disappearance of the Grey Wardens and if it correlates with the murder of the Divine.”

The man breathes sharply, “Makers balls, the Wardens and the Divine! That can’t—“ He takes a look at their group, “No, you’re asking so you don’t really know.

“First off, I didn’t know they disappeared. But we do that, right? No more Blight, job done. Wardens are the first thing forgotten. One thing I’ll tell you: no warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

She looks to the receding boys, barely old enough to be growing beards.  “What’s the warden  _ purpose _ got to do with throwing farmers at bandits?”

“This is different.” He insists, “I was in the area recruiting. Fought some demons, then I heard about the stealing. Treaties give wardens the right to take what we need, who we need. These idiots,” he gestures towards the bodies, “forced this fight, so I conscripted their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Next time, they won’t need me.” He takes a breath and looks firmly towards Coralynn, “Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are.”

“Do you have any idea where the other wardens might have gone?”

The man shakes his head, “They might have returned to our stronghold in Weisshaupt. That’s in the Anderfels, a long way North. I don’t really know. Can’t imagine why’d they all disappear at once, let alone where they’d disappear to.”

“And you?” Cassandra asks, “Why haven’t you gone with the rest of them?”

He looks to her, “Well maybe I was going to. Or,” he returns to Coralynn, “maybe there’s a new directive, but a runner got lost or something. My job was to recruit on my own. Planned to stay that way for months, years.”

Coralynn feels her dreams of the wardens slip away with every answer. This man knows nothing. She thanks him for his time and readies to depart, wondering what she will say to Leliana upon their return. Until, she hears a shout behind her. “Hold a moment.”

She turns, listening. “The Divine is dead and the sky is torn. Events like these, thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you need a warden. Maybe you need me.” He thumps against his breastplate, the metal ringing through the clearing.

It is an impassioned speech, but she is not yet swayed. This man has given her nothing but colorful language, yet he had supported the villagers and protected them from the Breach. “The Inquisition needs all the support it can get, but what can one warden do?”

The man chuckles, “Save the fucking world, if pressed. Look, maybe fighting demons from the sky isn’t something I’m practiced at, but show me someone who is. And there are treaties. Maybe this isn’t a Blight, but it’s bloody well a disaster. Being a Warden means something to a lot of people.”

Coralynn takes a breath and turns back to Cassandra. The woman looks at Blackwall, arms crossed her chest, but she nods and that approval is enough. “Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer.”   

“Good to hear. We both need to know what’s going on and perhaps I’ve kept to myself for too long. This Warden walks with the Inquisition.”

She points to the ridge past the Lake, “The Inquisition has gathered in the Crossroads. From there, they should provide you escort to Haven.” Their party readies to leave, but before they depart she turns to the Warden and sees him stare into the Breach above. “Maker be with you,” she says.

The Warden nods to her and grabs his sword from where he left it by the fallen bandit.  “And with you.”

* * *

 

Back in Haven, Blackwall situates himself by the blacksmith.

At the Council’s next meeting, both Cassandra and the Commander are sure to tell her how impressed they are with his skill. He has taken to drilling with some of the troops, imparting some of the warden style. The warriors are grateful for his actions, relieving them for a few hours to catch up on official Inquisition reports. Leliana wishes that he knew more about the Wardens’ disappearance, but is nonetheless glad that he offers his help around the camp.

Soon, they are sent to investigate Redcliffe, after hearing about the opening of another rift, and Cassandra requests they bring the warden. Varric has begun to complain about a pain in his knee with all of the recent travel and Blackwall would be an easy replacement.

Coralynn finds herself ready to agree. She has seen Blackwall practice in the evenings against the wooden dummies that litter the yard and discovers him to be a more than adequate swordsman.

But the Warden is not the only thing to change in Haven. She notices it on the second morning, when she goes into the yard to watch the morning drills. Cassandra continually tells her she needs more combat experience, which she has sorely lacked staying the Circle. Each night, she invites the mage out to the yard and, at last, Coralynn takes her invitation.

She sits on the high embankment and watches the troops through their swordplay drills, not sure how much she should impart. Training as a mage is drastically different than that of a warrior. It is lucky that she is able to utilize a staff; some mages prefer to work solely with their hands. According to Cassandra, a staff is at least something she can use to knock foes aside their heads.

But in the early morning light, she does not see the similarity between her actions and that of the soldiers. Their motions are blocky and brutal and she has no wish for combat in close quarters. Truth be told, the way they strike and hack at each other in mock battle makes her sick. In the yard, their soldiers play at the war she sees daily in their journeys throughout the Hinterlands.

In the dark of night, her dreams are still haunted by the faces of men they battle, bloody and battered. The death and destruction they already face makes it hard to reconcile her survival through the murder of others.

By the time the sun begins to glint off the frozen lake, Coralynn gets ready to depart with a bitter taste in her mouth.

She does not notice the Commander’s approach until he is upon her. “Good morning, Herald.” His face is obscured by the shadow of the sun when she looks to him, “And to you, Commander.”

It is not as if she has purposefully avoided the man since her return to Haven, but she rarely spots him outside of the Council Chambers. He keeps busy with the troops, as each day more and more arrive. The men under his command approve of him, she knows, but still she is hesitant to trust this strange templar. Yet, Cassandra accepts him and the warrior tells her how quickly he rallied Chantry forces after the attack at the Conclave.  Coralynn trusts the Right Hand, so she swallows the bitter pill that is the Inquisition’s Commander.

“Cassandra told me you finally came to watch the drill routine.” He gestures back to the men behind him.

She nods, “I suppose I couldn’t ignore her any longer.” She sees that he has lowered himself down on the hill beside her. “I heard rumors that she was planning on dragging me here if I didn’t show up.” The joke slips out before she can stop herself.

The Commander chuckles, “Knowing Cassandra, that isn’t so far from the truth.” He looks to the troops, now in a new formation, with a fond look. “I must thank you again for your assistance with the refugees in Haven, each day more help reports in under the title of Vale’s Irregulars. “

Coralynn waves a hand, “It was nothing. The people of the Crossroads needed assistance and the Inquisition needed an ally.”

“You’ve still done a great service. We’ve received a number of recruits since then.” He turns to her, “None made  _ quite  _ the entrance you did.”

She scoffs, keeping her attention diverted on the troops. This templar is strange and she is still unsure how to act around him. He is handsome, but many men are. In the Circle, she learned not to judge a man by his appearance, nor his words, lest he speak kindness one moment and cruelty the next.  

“It wasn’t exactly my idea,” she responds carefully.

“I’d be concerned if it was.” He watches his force with a careful eye. The Commander is a man fit for leadership and Coralynn can easily see him taking control of the entire Inquisition, lest Cassandra not. So she takes a breath, steadies herself, and resolves to understand this templar, if for nothing more than to protect herself in the longer game.

“I heard Cassandra recruited you in Kirkwall.” She begins.

He nods, “I was there during the mage uprising. I saw firsthand the devastation it caused.” If any of the rumors she heard were true, devastation is an understatement.  But what she knows for fact is that an Annulment was called for and if the Commander did serve as Knight-Captain he would have voted for its authorization.  

But he switches the conversation quickly, before she can press. “Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a position, I left the templars to join her cause. Now,” he looks to the Breach above, “it seems we face something far worse.”

“The Conclave destroyed, a giant hole in the sky, some are calling this an apocalypse.”

“Which is why we’re needed,” he insists. “The Chantry lost control of both templars and mages. Now they argue over a new Divine, while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act, when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There’s so much we could—.” The Commander pauses and takes a breath, “Forgive me, I doubt you wish to hear a lecture.” He stands, brushing the dirt away from his coat.

Coralynn sees his passion and understands the very real underlying need for it. If this man does not believe in their efforts, they are doomed.  “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I know what happens when order is lost and help comes too late.” She does not have to ask what he means by such a statement. Before she can respond, a missive approaches them, bearing a report.

He takes it and studies the paper for a moment, before carefully folding it away. “Look around,” The commander gestures, “Our people are well organized and committed. Despite what the clerics may think, we’re in the best position to help. But there’s still work ahead.”

Another scout hurries towards them, shouting for the Commander. “You told me to notify you as soon as Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines.”

“Good work, scout.” He turns his attention back to her and speaks with a half-grin, “As I was saying.”

It is then that she notices it, the way his glance has changed and how he has begun to watch her differently.

In Ostwick and she assumes any tower, Templars were taught to watch the outline of a mage more than any other portion of their form. If one watches close, a faint shimmer can be seen of the mana barrier hosted by every mage. In times of stress, the barrier shifts, expands, and reveals how close the mage is to their breaking point.

Yet, the Commander no longer looks towards her shoulders, but instead to her face. The action states that she is no longer a wild rebel mage and, instead, an ally.

The thought makes her wary, she has spent too long learning not to trust templars outside her Circle, without exception. As the mage rebellions began, templars were frequently shuffled between the Circles of the Free Marches. Suddenly, the rumors of the evil templar became all too true. Her family’s gold kept her safe, but she knew many of her fellow mages were not so fortunate. To those men, she remained courteous, struggling to maintain a professional demeanor.

Yet an Annulment was never called for in Ostwick, unlike Kirkwall. She must admit that the Commander has exceeded her expectations, having been well mannered and polite through all their dealings. Although she has known too many men to have tasted blood and wished for more to trust this templar now, with the Breach hanging suspended in the sky above, she knows she has no other option but to try.

The Commander follows the scout off to where she assumes Ser Rylen resides and she watches him depart. She vows to herself that won’t show her fear to this man, she will remain strong. Even during times such as these, Coralynn Trevelyan will not break to a templar.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh shit, i was supposed to update this wasn't i? anyway, i'll try to get back to thursday updates. get ready for some redcliffe fun for next time!


End file.
